


White Wine, Red Wine

by mother_hearted



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Gen, Implied Child Abuse, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_hearted/pseuds/mother_hearted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he can feel the bile burn the back of his throat</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Wine, Red Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Bah, spacing decided to be a pain in the ass. Oh well.

When he opens the door to his fridge the wine bottle resting on the second shelf surprises him. Full to the brim, the seal unopened, he had forgotten all about it.

Days ago the mailman had come to his door holding out a package. Reading the note written on the side he had been taken aback, a gift from the magazine whose recently ended column he'd supplied photos for. Already having received his last check he hadn’t expected to hear from them again, much less be sent anything.

With a stuttered thank you he looked down at his feet taking the thinly wrapped box and waited for the man's footsteps to reach the end of the hall before closing the door to his apartment. Ripping through the paper and opening the box, his hand stiffened around the neck of the bottle.

White wine, crystal clear, expensive.

Staring at it, he would pour it down the sink, wash it out, get rid of the bottle tomorrow morning.

 _getting rid of the wine smell is hard, especially when there's only soap and water to flush out the sink_

At least, until the phone rang, that was what he had planned.

Thrown into his refrigerator, it had been sitting there since then, forgotten.

He's not sure why he takes it, the icy cold bottle nearly stinging his fingers. But if he's going to go back down that hole he needs something more than a rusted steel pipe and there's so little in his apartment, now isn't the time to be picky, not when Cynthia is waiting for him.

The glass begins to sweat against his hands when he starts running through the station, eyes ahead of him. The sniffer comes around the corner sluggishly, hasn't noticed him, won't notice him until he's five steps away only for the bottle to slam against its head. The liquid sloshes loudly inside, drowning out the chocked off cries of the undead beast when it falls, body convulsing, skin ripping open when its legs twitch and thrash too wildly. He stomps his foot down, crushing its spine, the sniffer dies lying in a puddle of its own blood.

 _red wine stains the worst, the kitchen tiles used to be white before they were rust colored_

The hallways in the station seem longer, he still hasn't found Cynthia. If this is Cynthia's dream (can you even call this a dream?), she doesn't sleep any easier than he does. Another door is kicked open, two more sniffers down the hall. Something is crawling, sliding, wiggling its way through a hole in the wall. He purses his lips tightly watching the large fleshy mass move, he can feel the bile burn the back of his throat.

The sniffers see him, watch him, wait for him. Tongues hang out of their mouths, globs of saliva hit the floor with a plop, pinkish and thick.

 _the thick stream of drool always runs down the right side of his mouth when he yells_

He runs at them before they sprint forward, the bottle bashes the top of its skull, knocking it over and giving room to swing up at the others jaw. They kick and scream on the ground, trying to get up, spit flailing from their mouths, tinged red and even thicker. The noises they make frighten him, too inhuman, but too in pain to be anything but human.

 _he doesn't know how to fight so he hides_

He ignores the sticky creeping warmth sinking into his shoes when he drops his foot down into the mess of their bodies, spinal cord breaking.

 _he always finds him_

Silence.

He still hasn't found Cynthia.

 _henry_

His body is tired, lungs on fire. The worm beside him is still inching its way through the hole in the wall.

 _crick crack crick crack crick crack_

 __  
_THUD_

He moves his body sideways and drives the bottle down, wine spilling over his hand and wrist, dripping down onto the dirty station floor. The jagged glass glints under the artificial lights. Shattered pieces lay scattered on the floor. He steps over them, looking at the sharp edges at the end of the item in his hand.

"...this is my weapon now."


End file.
